Page 62 of This Means War

“He’ll be right out,” Lisa chirps to us as she replaces the phone in its cradle.

I turn to Lisa, pulling out my phone as if I’ve just gotten a text. “Sorry to do this, Lisa,” I adopt a regretful expression, “but it looks like Ashley will have to take this meeting on her own. Something’s come up with my wife. I’m sure Saul will understand; he knows about her medical situation. She’s pregnant and on bedrest.”

“Oh no.” Lisa’s brow furrows in concern. Next to her Ashley’s furrows in anger. “Well don’t worry about Saul, like you said he’ll understand. He was going on and on about how much he liked Lydia this morning. He heard about that blog post you know. Said what a travesty it was for the media to go after such a nice young lady, all because she attached herself to a politician.” She blushes, seeming to realize what she’s just insinuated. “No offense, of course. I’m not saying it’s your fault. I mean…” she trails off helplessly.

“It’s fine,” I assure her, though a fresh wave of remorse is filling me. I’m fully aware her name is getting raked through the mud because of me, and it kills me that there’s not more I can do to stop it. “Believe me, I hate it too.”

There’s a pause as Lisa studies me, but then she smiles. “She’s lucky to have you in her corner then.”

“No,” I shake my head, “I’m the lucky one.” Then, without even looking at Ashley, I turn and leave. This time opting for the stairs.

Chapter 45

Lydia

I’d like to say thatI spent the time Cole was gone doing something productive, like praying about the situation or looking at job postings since I’m sure someone must be looking to hire a disgraced running coach currently on bedrest, but the truth is, staring at Josh’s text message sent me spiraling down the black hole of social media.

I spent ages scrolling through Delia’s Instagram feed, desperate for some sort of sign that she and Josh missed me, but her recent posts were all pictures of the two of them wining and dining at all of the bed and breakfasts they’d been touring. Then I stumbled upon a picture from almost a year ago of Delia and Josh at some party with Cole and Ashley. Delia had very helpfully tagged Ashley in the picture, so I didn’t even have to search for her profile, just one wayward click of the finger, and I had access to Ashley’s entire social media presence.

Which is how I found out that Ashley isn’t just a high-powered lawyer seemingly bent on stealingmy husband, she’s also a fashion influencer. I gaped as I stared at her follower count. Over 4,000 people apparently look to her for advice on things like how to accessorize your blazer and the best ways to avoid swimsuit tan lines. Well, the joke’s on her, because I haven’t even worn a swimsuit this whole summer, so, unlike the 137 people that commented on that post, I don’t need her advice on avoiding tan lines.

Since apparently I enjoy torture, I continue scrolling through Ashley’s feed, my eyes hitching on a photo of her and Cole buried among all the fashion photos. His arm hangs loosely around her shoulders in the picture as he plants a kiss on the top of her head.Taking a break from all things fashion to post a photo of me and my love, the caption begins. I force myself to look away from the screen, not wanting to read more, not wanting to know all about how in love they once were. I try to comfort myself with the fact that they were just boyfriend and girlfriend; it’s not as if he wanted to marry her.

“Knock, knock,” I drop the phone with a jump as someone speaks from my doorway. Astonishment robs me of words as I see Delia standing there, a tentative smile on her face. “Hey, Lydia, can I come in?”

“Delia,” her name comes out a squeak. “You’re here.”

“Yeah.” She takes one step inside the room. “Josh is too; he’s just putting some of the food we brought into your fridge. Cole invited us for dinner, but Josh insisted on cooking since you’re on bedrest.”

“Josh is here?” I repeat, my mind spinning. “Josh is here…and Cole invited him?”

Now a smile dances across Delia’s face, and she crosses the room the rest of the way before sinking onto my bed. “Yeah, I guess he showed up at the Robin’s Nest, and they had it out.” She shakes her head. “I knew they just needed to talk, but your brother is so stubborn. He wouldn’t listen to me.” Her smile fades. “I’m sorry we didn’t come see you at the hospital. I wanted to, but Josh was so…” she trails off uncertainly, her eyes darting around to avoid catching mine, then landing on my dropped phone. I forget about her apology as I notice Ashley’s profile still on full display. Crap. I scramble to grab it, quickly shutting the screen off, but it’s too late. She’s already seen it.

“I was just taking a quick peek,” I say defensively. “I found her profile by accident. I, uh, needed some fashion tips, how to tuck your shirt in cutely or whatever, and she was one of the first hits when I searched for the fashion hashtag. She’s got like a million followers.”

“Right,” Delia raises an eyebrow, “because everyone knows tucked in shirts are a good maternity look, really shows off the elastic waistband of your jeans well.”

“P-uh,” a disgruntled noise escapes my lips, “rude.”

“Don’t be embarrassed,” she ignores me, “I spent some time insta-stalking Josh’s high school ex when we first started dating. It’s normal.” She hesitates,then adds, “Though you should know, her follower count took a hit recently.”

“Oh?” I peer at her in confusion.

“Well, she just lost me, so not that much of a hit.” Her eyes finally meet mine, and I feel a rush of gratitude.

“You unfollowed Ashley?”

“It was time for us to go our separate ways,” Delia says with a shrug. “I can’t be friends with someone who would–”

“Lydia,” this time it’s Josh who stands in the doorway, an apologetic expression on his face. “Can I come in? I come bearing an ‘I’m-sorry-for-being-a-jerk’ gift.” He holds up a box of strawberry Pop-Tarts. I’m way too predictable.

“I don’t know,” I reply, trying to keep my expression stern, despite the fact that I am so happy to see my brother. “Those may have done the trick before, but I married this guy who already buys me all the Pop-Tarts I want.”

“I hope that’s what you told the press when they called you a gold digger,” he replies, “that all you ever really wanted in a man was someone who could afford to buy name brand Pop-Tarts. The expensive house was just a bonus.”

Now I can’t keep the smile off my face as I retort, “You butthead.”

Josh laughs. “Kidding, sis, believe me I left quite a few comments on Deb’s Deets telling her exactly what I thought of her BS article.”

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